The Hour of the Wolf
by The Little Conqueror
Summary: AU: Ned Stark plans to assist in seating Stannis Baratheon upon the Iron Throne... but suddenly has a change of heart, and the game changes with it.
1. The Game Changes

**Disclaimer: Odds are, if you read something in this, its George RR Martin's. I own almost nothing here. **

**EDDARD**

"Give me an hour and I could put a hundred swords in your hand," Renly Baratheon stated blatantly.

The first thought that came to Eddard Stark's mind was of how he could barely walk, let alone hold a hundred swords. _Now is not the time for humor; the king lies dead and I make jests while bold decisions are to be made. _"And what am I to do with a hundred swords, Lord Renly?" Ned shrugged Tomard and Cayn off of him, indicating he did not need support for the time being. The two guards slowly let go as the youngest Baratheon answered.

"_Strike_! Tonight, while the castle rests!" Renly looked almost wide-eyed under the moonlight, seeming surprised that Ned would even ask such a question. "If Robert made you regent, you need to make the first move before Cersei realizes _she _can." He looked back toward the keep, as if looking to see if they were being watched. Ned had never seen Renly so jumped before. He had always been calm, collected, but humorous. There was no humor to his tone, now. No collectiveness to his words. And his demeanor was definitely the opposite of calm.

Ned shook his head lightly, trying to process what he was being asked to do. It was treason; outright, un-sugar-coated treason. There was no secrecy involved with this. "What 'move' would you have me make, my lord? Would you fancy me a usurper?" His tone was cold; he did not try to amend it.

Renly did not seem to notice. "Better a usurper than a corpse. But no, that's not what I'm asking. Nor am I _asking, _but nor am I demanding. I'm… offering."

"Offering what, my lord? To plague Robert's last moments with blood and chaos? Is that what you 'offer', Renly? Right here, in plain sight of the Red Keep, clear for all to see?"

For a moment, Renly considered his words, and for that moment Ned thought he was going to leave. But the stag quickly recovered and understood what the wolf meant. Taking a step closer, seeming to have his usual wit back, unprovoked by both Tom and Cayn's own steps forward, the young Baratheon lowered his voice to a whisper. "Meet me in the godswood."

Ned's own voice was hushed as he replied, "My chambers. Alone."

They both turned promptly, and Tom and Cayn once again took up their efforts of assistance, and escorted Eddard to the Tower of the Hand.

The steps winded up, and as he expected, it took longer than usual to make his way up them. Maybe it just felt like that. That was to be expected as well; he had a castle-full of thoughts running through his mind. _If Cersei discovers this, we're all dead men. Myself, Renly, all his supposed men, anyone she believes to be involved. And the girls…_

Ned had forgotten about the girls. Arya and Sansa had both been a bit preoccupied in the past month, the former constantly with the Braavosi and the latter being courted by the prince. Their father had little time to spend on them. And he hated himself for it. _This may be the last time I may be able to if this is botched…_

Suddenly, a realization dawned on him that had not deemed to shed light on him until just then. As Cayn opened the door to his chambers and Tom helped him inside, Ned moved to a comfortable, red, ironwood chair that was seated right beside the already lit fire. Sighing, Eddard leaned back, his eyes glossy with memory and intense thought. "Tom."

The fat guardsman bowed his head silently, his voice hushed. "M'lord."

"I want you and twenty handpicked men to accompany Sansa and Arya back to Winterfell. There is a ship waiting in the harbor, that will be heading north by the morn. Ensure they're kept safe."

From the corner of his eye, Ned saw Tom bow his head once again. "Aye, m'lord hand. I'll pick them tonight. You could look over them, before our departure, if you'd like."

Eddard nodded slowly, staring into the fire. "Cayn," he said. After awaiting another head-bow, Ned continued. "Go to Lord Baelish's apartments and inform him the hand would like to discuss the king's will; privately."

Waiting for the two guardsmen to leave, Lord Eddard sighed, and rose painfully, using his cane to cross the room to the hand's desk- his desk- and slowly sat back down again. Before him was a book; a rather large book, at that. A ponderous tome, Grand Maester Pycelle had declared it, and even just looking at it you could tell the statement was true. _The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms. _Never had Ned poured so much effort into analyzing a single book as he had with this one. Hopefully it was not in vain.

Opening up the dusty thing, Ned once again opened to the pages detailing the lineage of House Baratheon. Running his fingers down the long, yellowed pages, Ned found them settling on the newly-written lineage of his dying friend Robert. _Golden haired, all three,_ he thought to himself. _Cersei herself told me they are no true heirs to the throne. She all but stated it, right to my face…_

Eddard slowly reached over to his quill and ink pot, contemplating on writing to Stannis Baratheon on Dragonstone. He would be the one true heir to the Iron Throne if what he thought was true, and now he all but knew it. All he needed to do was write this one letter, give it to Tom, and have the _Wind Witch _stop at Dragonstone, and it would be done. Stannis would sail for King's Landing and take the throne. As was his right.

Just as he was pressing the ink-covered quill to the parchment, Cayn and Desmond both entered with Littlefinger in tow. Petyr was a short man, slender in form, but Ned knew the dangers he posed. His gray-green eyes pierced Eddard's as he entered, playing with the beard that stood solely on his chin, pointing out like the tip of a sword. The man wore a blue velvet tunic with puffed sleeves, his silvery cape patterned with mockingbirds. As if the gods willed it, the wind blew a gust through the window, causing the thing to flap in all directions. Ned thanked the two guardsmen before dismissing them.

Baelish bore a smug smile as he moved to take a seat opposite Eddard. "Congratulations, Lord Protector, on your new position."

Ned frowned in confusion, looking over to the letter that Robert himself had sealed – his final will and testament… unopened. "And how did you come across the news of my appointment, my lord?"

"Varys likes to play at hints. And you just confirmed my suspicion." Littlefinger's smile widened, noticing Eddard's hand holding the quill over the parchment. "Informing your wife? Perhaps inviting her to the capital once again?"

Ned scowled at that, trying to control his annoyance. "I never invited her in the first place, Lord Baelish. She came of her own accord."

"Of course," Littlefinger replied. "But I wager you did not fetch me from my chambers at the hour of the wolf to speak of Lady Catelyn or her adventures."

Eddard placed the quill back in the ink pot for the moment, lacing his fingers together and resting his hands on the wooden desk. "The king is near death. But no doubt you have already heard."

"Indeed," Littlefinger said.

Before Ned could continue, a sharp rasp came at the door, and he was ready to fight at a moment's notice. He didn't even notice his sword hand went to his hip. "Yes?"

Cayn's voice answered promptly. "Lord Renly, m'lord."

A sigh of relief escaped Ned's mouth, much to Littlefinger's amusement. "Send him in."

The young Baratheon looked just as restless and anxious as before, though he did seemed to be a bit calmer. Renly took one look at Littlefinger, who waved amusedly at him, and inhaled exasperatedly. "You said alone, Ned."

"Aye," Eddard replied, "I said alone. Only because alone suited my purposes. If the queen's informants heard anything you had said, they needed to think we were… conspiring… alone." Ned hated saying that.

Littlefinger seemed to enjoy what Ned said. "You're learning, Lord Stark."

"I'd much rather stay unlearned in these intrigues. But for now I must play your game, until Lord Stannis arrives."

"Stannis?" Renly sounded surprised. "What does Stannis have to do with any of this?"

Ned sighed; this was the best time to tell them. They needed to know if this scheme was going to work. "Jon Arryn was murdered." He let those words sink in, though they didn't seem to have any effect on the two men across him. "I know the secret he died with, and was poisoned to protect. When the king passes, he will leave behind no trueborn heirs. Joffrey, Tommen, even Myrcella, they are all bastards… born from the incestuous relations, between the queen and her brother, Jaime Lannister."

Littlefinger's smile died, but his tone gave no indication as to any surprise. "Shocking, Lord Eddard." Petyr frowned, and grabbed the quill out of the inkpot that Ned had set aside. Renly was frowning as well, as if he had not even considered the idea of Robert's children being baseborn. Littlefinger continued on. "So that means, that the throne…"

"The throne passes to Lord Stannis," Ned finished for him. "By right of birth and blood, the Iron Throne will bear him."

"Indeed," Littlefinger said. "Unless…"

"There is no _unless_, Lord Baelish. Stannis Baratheon is the one true heir. It can be no other way."

Renly Baratheon finally spoke up, raising a hand as if to stop them from talking for a second. His face was heavily concentrated, almost scowling. "Lord Baelish is right to say _unless, _Lord Eddard. There is more than one way to handle this. We need not be so hasty."

"Hasty?" Ned was growing impatient with these two. _Schemers, both of them._ "You were rather _hasty _on the bridge leading from the tower where your brother lays dying, my lord."

Renly paid that no mind, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "If Stannis were to come here," he was saying pretty much to himself in a hushed voice, "he'd put all the Lannisters to death. Should he know the truth, that is."

"He does," Eddard confirmed. "From what I've gathered, he and Jon had been working with each other. It would explain his sudden plight to Dragonstone."

"If you believe that," Littlefinger chimed in, "Lord Stark, you are a bigger fool than I first believed." Baelish continued to play with the quill, leaning back in his chair. "Stannis Baratheon may be an honorable man, but he is a jealous one as well. As soon as His Grace named you Hand, Lord Stannis packed up his house and family and fled to Dragonstone, tail between his legs, pouting face on. Stannis broods, Lord Stark, and broods often. He will not forgive such a slight."

Ned had not considered that. He remembered hearing rumors of Stannis' leaving upon his appointment, but he didn't think it was on grounds of jealousy. His head hurt.

Renly moved closer to the table, practically leaning over it; the same look he had before still adorned his face. "Littlefinger speaks the truth, Ned. Everyone knows it; Stannis holds a grudge better than anyone. But that is not what I worry for." Renly made for the window overlooking the courtyard, and took a comfortable seat on the ledge, looking out over the darkness of the yard below. "If we hand the realm over to Stannis, you will not be protecting anything, Lord Protector." Renly said the title with mirth. "Tell me, which is the better situation, Lord Stark: taking the kingdom from Cersei Lannister, a woman you could control given the right circumstances, and ruling through her and her son – or after seizing the kingdom from her, hand the reins over to a man that inspires no love, loyalty, or kinship?"

Littlefinger nodded nonchalantly. "A fine way of putting things, indeed."

"A fine way to so negligently discuss treason in front of the Lord Protector." Ned was now entirely angry; he didn't even realize he had raised his voice until he was done. He sighed, realizing that this whole meeting was treason in itself. "You southrons… do none of you have a shred of honor?"

"A shred," Littlefinger retorted, "but surely nothing more than that. Hear me out. Stannis is no friend of yours, or of I. He can barely stand his brothers, for the gods' sake." Renly chuckled darkly. Littlefinger continued. "The man is practically made of iron; unyielding, scarcely malleable. It will be no easy task to rein him in from causing open war in the realm. A war that will involve more than just the riverlands, if that's what you're going to retort with. Think of it: Stannis Baratheon sails into Blackwater Bay, rides up to the Red Keep, and takes his crown, all the while measuring Cersei and her children's heads for a spike on the walls of Maegor's Holdfast. Tywin Lannister is not a man to take threats lightly. He will march here as soon as word reaches him that Stannis has killed his darling daughter, the Light of the West, and her oh-so-beautiful children. He's been raiding the riverlands all because your wife took the Imp for a month or so; imagine what kind of wroth he will bring down upon Stannis and _us _should we be the ones to hand him the throne. And let us not forget the Tyrells and the rest of the Reach; as soon as Stannis is crowned he will want to avenge those that starved within his walls at the siege of Storm's End, and the great houses of the reach will not bow so easily to a man that wants their heads. War and fire will engulf the realm… and all for honor." Littlefinger stopped playing with the quill and promptly snapped it in half, as if it was some sort of symbol, before he continued.

"Now look at the positive side. Joffrey is a boy of twelve, easily influenced if you put enough sweet words in his ear. The king gave you the regency; you are Hand of the King _and _Protector of the Realm. You have the power to rein in Joffrey and bring the Lannisters to heel. All you need do is make peace with them. Release the Imp. Wed Sansa and Joffrey, binding whatever offspring they produce to your family. Treat with Lord Tywin; end the war in the riverlands. It could all be accomplished… if you meet the circumstances."

Ned's mouth twisted; he felt as if he was on puppets strings… and yet he was the puppet master in this case. He needed only to say the word, and whichever choice he went with would be carried out. He knew what sort of man Joffrey could potentially grow up to be if he wasn't reined in properly. And Ned was not a man to put children to death, like Stannis apparently was. If he were to help the young 'prince', teach him the right way to rule… he would have no need to deal with the scandal that plagues their origins. He could allow it to slide… and the Lannister woman would be forever in his debt for keeping her and her brother's dire secret. He did not like the idea… but he could finally return home, to Winterfell. He could see Bran, Robb, Rickon. He could embrace Catelyn like he'd wanted to while she was in the capital so many months ago. He could visit Jon at the Wall, see what sort of man he had become while becoming a sworn brother… and tell him about his mother.

_Let the motley-clad southrons play their game of thrones. Let the Lannister woman and her brother continue their sin. The gods could care less over what Cersei and Jaime Lannister do; they worship their seven faced entity. Let someone else deal with Joffrey and Stannis and all the rest who want the damned barbed seat. Let someone else deal with everything. I belong in the north. I am a _Stark. "What… circumstances… would need meeting to accomplish this folly?"

Petyr's smile returned as soon as the words left Eddard's mouth. "You are growing fond of the game, I see, Lord Stark."

"The day I grow fond of your southron games is the day I am rotting in the ground, Lord Baelish."

Renly rose from the window sill and began to pace as soon as Ned had asked of the circumstances he spoke of. "I have around thirty men in my own guard; Ser Loras has just as much; and I have plenty of friends here at court. Those hundred swords I promised can be had within the hour. I need only send the word out." Renly shook his head, frowning. "But it's still not enough. Cersei has a dozen knights at her command, as well as a hundred men-at-arms that were left here by Tywin Lannister as an honor guard. We need more."

They sat in silence for a moment – Renly pacing, Petyr musing, himself frowning – before Eddard remembered what he had brought Littlefinger here for in the first place. "The City Watch is two thousand strong."

Littlefinger chuckled lightly, and suddenly became conscious that his old dagger was sitting on the desk. "The gold cloaks," he went on as he reached over to it, "are pledged to protect the city, the castle, and their king. But who do they follow when the king is too young to issue orders himself, and the queen commands them to do one thing but the Lord Protector another?" He twirled the dragonbone-hilted blade in a circle on the desk, and then stopped it as it landed on him, a wry smile piercing his lips. "The man who pays them, of course."

Renly nodded firmly, his eyes practically glowing with anxiousness and whatever else he felt, whether it be sorrow or something of a completely different nature. "I will gather who I can. Give me an hour. I will meet you in the courtyard soon."

"No." Ned knew this was not what they wanted, but he would not have Robert's last moments be filled with the sounds of bloodshed, and screams from frightened children and dying men alike. "We will not strike tonight. Robert's blood still runs warm; I will not plague his final hours with death and… damnable treason." He shook his head angrily.

Baelish rose from his seat swiftly, his demeanor unchanging. "Fair enough, Lord Stark. I will have enough time to speak with Janos Slynt about his share of the gold. Stingy man, Slynt; even stingier than I." A dark chuckle escaped him as he bowed and turned to leave the room.

"Lord Baelish," Ned lightly called out, rising painfully from his desk. Renly moved to help but he waved his co-conspirator off, propping himself up with his hand on the tabletop. Littlefinger turned to regard him, that same mocking smile on his lips, though he seemed more happy than mocking. Ned continued. "When Catelyn told me you would never betray my trust, I didn't believe her. I was wrong to mistrust you, as I said once before in my solar a few months ago. I apologize."

Littlefinger chuckled once again, and shook his head. "And I will answer with the same thing as before, Lord Stark; mistrusting me was the wisest thing you've done since you entered the capital." He left without another word, his silver cloak dancing with the night's wind, the mockingbirds dancing with it.


	2. The Throne Room

**Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it's probably George RR Martin's.**

**RENLY**

"Wake up."

Renly was not truly asleep; he had spent all night thinking of what was to come the next morning. And now that morning had arrived.

But nonetheless, he acted as if he was to appease Loras, who just "awoke" him from his façade. Putting on the best groggy act as he could, Renly turned over, smiling up at the young Tyrell. He put a finger to his mouth to silence him. "You'll wake the queen."

Both of them had to contain their laughter after that remark. Loras Tyrell wore nothing, and that's how Renly preferred him. But he had come to him in a green doublet, white wool pants, and black leather boots.

He had also taken pleasure in ripping them off.

Loras rose from the bed, his skin all but shining in the pale light of the rising sun. He went over to the window and slowly opened the wooden shutters; Renly had them installed for more privacy. The young knight sighed. "The Lannisters are more than happy this morning."

Renly rose as groggily as possible, wrapping his arms around Loras as he looked through the open shutters as well. _This a warning to Eddard Stark and whoever else the Lannister bitch suspects of treason?_

"The hoof beats woke me; the bell never does anymore." Loras shook his head. "They suspect what's coming."

"No," Renly Baratheon replied, "they _know _what's coming."

The yard rang with the sound of steel and hoof beats as men in crimson cloaks and mail and leather were either standing around cursing and jesting, or charging the straw-stuffed dummies whilst on horseback. The Hound ran down one of the dummies with ferocity, straw and wood exploding in all directions as his lance collided with the mock man.

Just like he had ridden down that poor butcher's boy near Darry.

Renly had witnessed it firsthand; he was out searching for the Stark girl with the rest of them and he and his search party were just returning to Castle Darry to report no trace had been found. Luckily Stark's own men had found her; Renly didn't know _what _Cersei would do with her if her crimson cloaked bastards had. On his way through a small patch of wood, he and his men witnessed the butcher's boy ridden down by Sandor Clegane, cut almost in half from shoulder to waist. He almost lost his stomach watching it. Though he did not know the youngest Stark girl as well as he did the older, he still felt horrid for not apologizing to her. Not that he had anything to do with it; but he still felt horrible.

Loras broke the silence by sighing loudly. "When do we make our move?"

Renly shook himself out of the trance of thought, returning to the real world. "Soon, hopefully. Lord Stark has the final say in where and when. He wants to wait for Robert to pass, first."

"I'm sorry for saying so, my love, but His Grace is as good as passed."

Renly pushed him away and moved to the bed, angered. "I know that, Loras. No need to remind me…" He put his head in his hands and sighed.

He could hear Loras move to his side again, felt his soft hand on his back. "I know you were close with him. Perhaps not recently, but I know you loved him. He was a good king."

"At some points, yes, he was. When he wasn't hunting or whoring or drinking." Another sigh, then Renly rose again, this time to pour him a glass of wine at the table in the center of the room. "I am going to miss him… but now is not the time for grieving. Bold actions are to be made, and Ned Stark will be at their head."

"Stark," Loras said with mirth. "He refused me the opportunity to prove myself in the riverlands. I took the Mountain down in the lists, why not on the battlefield?"

"As Stannis has reminded me since birth, the battlefield is not a joust, love. 'War is messy,' he always tells me, 'you don't get up from a spear shattering through your chest and say "well ridden, ser".'"

"It's a good thing we are preventing war, then." Loras came to sit at the table, putting one leg over the other to hide his manhood after Renly poured him some wine. After taking a sip and swirling it around his cup, the young Tyrell frowned. "Something just occurred to me."

"Curious," Renly wryly replied with a grin, sitting down across Loras.

"Shut up," Loras chuckled. "But in all seriousness… who's to be king if Joffrey were to… I don't know… fall, while securing him?"

Renly knew where this was going. "Loras…"

"I'm just curious, love." The Knight of Flowers leaned forward, looking Renly straight in the eyes. "You would make for more than a decent king."

Loras had never mentioned this to Renly before. He knew his love was ambitious… but not this ambitious. "What would you have me do? Kill my nephew just so I can claim the throne? It would never work; Stark wouldn't allow it to happen. And if it worked, there would be war. No one would fancy their young king being replaced by his uncle."

"The reach would," Loras retorted. "Your bannermen would. We could form an _army—_"

"I said _no, _Loras." His tone was lathered in anger and grief. He considered telling Loras about Joffrey's true origins. _Bloody Lannisters. _He knew Stark would make no exceptions to who could know and who couldn't. Maybe he could convince Ned…

Loras sighed, and turned his head to the window. They sat in silence for an hour before Pycelle's servant came knocking.

Renly knew what was coming, but he wasn't ready for it. His mouth twisted, tears welling in his eyes. Loras looked to him with sympathy, and after a firm nod from Renly, he got up and slipped behind the wardrobe, where he hid whenever a visitor came knocking. "One moment." Renly's voice cracked when he called out, slipping a robe on.

The boy was dressed in simple clothing; linen shirt, linen pants, leather boots. His head was bowed as he announced his business. "I bear a message, m'lord. From the grand maester."

Renly waved his hand, the tears coming back. "Get on with it."

After a curt nod, the boy said the dreaded words. "King Robert has passed, may the gods guide him. The Hand has called a meeting in his solar, in the Tower of the Hand."

Renly was surprised at his ability to keep control of his emotions; he barely felt the need to cry. Robert was his older brother; his _oldest _brother. He had always looked up to him. He was everything he wanted to be: strong, authoritative, a warrior that songs were written of. _I will write him one, _Renly promised himself. _When we deliver him to Storm's End as his final resting place, I will sing it as they place him in the ground. And a statue, yes, a statue shall be forged as well. He will watch over the Red Keep for all time…_

When Renly sent the boy away, he closed the door, and just stared at it for a time. He had not felt so empty in a long time. He couldn't even remember the last time he felt like this. He could never remember his reaction when Mother and Father died at sea, but he was sure it was nothing compared to this.

The tears began to flow, and he almost fell to the ground were it not for one arm resting against the door. Silently sobbing, Renly Baratheon didn't even hear Loras come up from behind him. The young knight wrapped his arms around Renly for some time, comforting him as the tears streamed down his cheeks and onto the Myrish rug below them. He didn't know how long they stood there; minutes, hours, days. Renly just didn't know.

But after that undeterminable amount of time, he turned and kissed the boy that was his love, and went over to the wardrobe to put on some clothes and wipe the damned tears from his face. He didn't even notice what he put on, and for a moment had no idea where he was even going. He remembered when he heard the door shut behind him, and the rest of the small council sat and stared at him, as if expecting something.

He could not remember if he had left before Loras; no, Loras left before. That was it. He said he'd gather his men and speak with Royce and Swann and the rest of them, even the Stokeworth woman, who was a part of Littlefinger's little list.

The master of coin had personally delivered a list of their potential allies for Renly to speak to and incite them to their side. All of them he knew: Yohn Royce, Lady Stokeworth, Ser Balon, the Redwyne brothers… and Loras.

_Loras must be gathering them all now, _he thought. His mind returned to there and then, away from how and when and what. He saw Ned Stark, who looked as if he had not slept in quite some time, seated beside Grand Maester Pycelle, at a table that was modeled to look like a smaller, less elaborate version of the one in the small council chamber; Pycelle's crimson robe accentuated his long, white-white beard immensely. Littlefinger across the room, by the now-extinguished fire; he wore a wry smile as he waved at Renly. Ser Barristan was seated across from Pycelle and Eddard, laden with his elaborate white cloak and shining scale armor; his pale, blue-grey eyes were filled with sorrow and baggy with restlessness. And finally Lord Varys, who bowed in either respect or sorrow for Renly as he walked in.

_All here, _Renly Baratheon thought. _He's going to tell them all._

"Lord Renly," Varys softly said, his tone sad-but-not. "The realm weeps. We all are praying to the Crone to guide His Grace to sanctuary."

Renly sighed lightly, but nodded in response. "Praying won't bring him back, Lord Varys." He stepped past the eunuch and moved to take a seat beside Ser Barristan, leaning against the high back of the wooden chair. "Shall we begin?"

Eddard Stark, the conveyor of this meeting, slowly brought out what Renly suspected were the final words of his brother. Solemnly, the Hand opened the letter. "The king summoned me last night to record his final will and testament. Both Grand Maester Pycelle and Lord Renly here witnessed His Grace stamping the document with his own seal, to be opened in this council meeting after he passed." He slid the paper across the table. "If you would be so kind as to remove the seal, Ser Barristan."

The old knight examined the document. "King Robert's seal… unbroken." Promptly breaking the seal, Barristan read the whole of it. "Lord Eddard Stark is to rule as Protector of the Realm and Lord Regent until the heir comes of age."

Renly waited for it, for the words to come pouring out of Stark's mouth. _Say it, you bastard. Get it over with; get the truth out._

Instead, Ned Stark said "I would ask this council to confirm me as Protector of the Realm, as the king wished."

After a few moments of silence, Renly opened his mouth to say something, but was swiftly interrupted by the door swinging open, one of Stark's fat guards stepping in. "Pardon, m'lords, the royal steward is without and…"

The damned steward squeezed his way in and bowed to the council in session. "My lords, His Grace is awaiting you in the throne room and awaits the presence of his small council."

Renly rose swiftly and was about to full on throw his fist at the steward's face – irrational as that was – until Stark stopped him with a cold look, then recovered quickly enough to respond. "We shall attend immediately, then. Let us go, my lords."

It was a long walk down the stairs.

Littlefinger assisted Lord Eddard with an arm, while the rest of the council followed closely behind them. Outside the tower, the rest of Stark's household guard waited, grey cloaks snapping in the morning wind. Looking around the yard, Renly saw many gold cloaks flapping as well, and that was reassuring: Littlefinger had held up his end of the gamble. Renly just hoped Loras had his own waiting near Maegor's Holdfast.

Renly was so relieved when they reached the throne room entrance he thought for a moment he might faint. Loras had rallied them; just like Renly knew he would. _He's capable of anything and everything; gods, he's perfect. _Though… something was not right; something was missing.

He only realized when the throne room doors were opening. _Loras._

Looking back as he was being practically pushed into the room by one of Royce's men, searching for his Knight of Flowers. _Not here. He's not here. _Where was he? He stopped thinking of him; he needed to focus. Renly returned his attention forward, just as the steward was yelling aloud the new king's titles and such.

"All hail His Grace Joffrey of the Houses Baratheon and Lannister, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm."

As they made their way toward the end of the hall and the ugly throne that stood there, Renly examined his surroundings. Joffrey sat atop the Iron Throne, arrogant and looking comfortable, a golden doublet and red satin cape adorning his body; Cersei sat beside him, wearing a emerald-green dress of Myrish lace, and looked rather worried at the sight of all the armed men that approached them. Renly liked that. What he didn't like was the fact Cersei had brought her two other children; Myrcella and Tommen stood beside her, behind the five knights of the Kingsguard – excluding Ser Jaime and their Lord Commander – who formed a half-moon in front of the barbed seat their monarch sat upon. _If it comes to bloodshed, they will see it. Damn you, Cersei._

Crimson clad men-at-arms stood behind the throne and some beside it, hands on their swords now that there were around fifty of Renly's one hundred swords in the room; the rest were without, waiting. All along the walls of the throne room, however, were the golden cloaks of the City Watch and Renly had not even noticed Janos Slynt beside Ned and Littlefinger. They outnumbered Cersei and her boy five to one. _This can be resolved quickly. We must be steadfast. _

As the group came to a halt a few feet before the Kingsguard, Gage, one of Renly's own personal guards, slowly and carefully handed a sheathed sword to him. Renly Baratheon inhaled and exhaled, anxious, and nodded to Gage, mouthing a _thank you_ before returning his attention forward. He held the blade tight.

Cersei Lannister stood from her seat, her hand resting on Myrcella's shoulder. Her tiara shone in the pale sunlight pouring through the windows. "Well isn't this a merry band you have here, Lord Stark. Have they all come to pledge their swords they wear so loosely in their hilts to our new king?"

Lord Eddard was silent, but Renly swore he could feel the iciness in his voice when he finally spoke. "Ser Barristan. Read the letter aloud, if you would be so kind." As the old knight nervously opened the letter, Ned continued. "This document is the final will and testament of King Robert; Lord Renly and Grand Maester Pycelle can both vouch for its authenticity."

Cersei gave the aged maester an icy look before turning her eyes toward Ser Barristan again. After he was done, the queen chuckled and applauded pitifully. "A wonderful show, my lord. But is this testament, this piece of paper, supposed to be your shield? A poorly made one, if one at all."

Ned replied almost instantly. "You may say as you please, _Lady _Cersei. But the sign and words are King Robert's own. And I happen to have many supporters of them." He had Littlefinger let go of him, and slowly approached the throne, his leg faltering slightly. "If you comply, no harm will come to you. No blood need be shed."

Myrcella seemed appalled. "Mother, are they going to fight? What are they going to do?"

Cersei fumed. "You condemn yourself with your own mouth, Stark. Ser Barristan, seize this traitor."

The old knight looked between the two, and managed one step toward Lord Stark before he was surrounded by eight Stark guards, bare steel in their fists. It didn't take long for the Lannister guards behind them to unsheathe their own blades, along with Sandor Clegane, whom Renly had just noticed. Soon enough the whole room, excluding the gold cloaks, looked ready to tear each to pieces. Renly had his sword out before he could think, already trying to find a man to take on. _Who looks the least likely to kill me? _

"You leave me no choice," Stark called out. Commander, take the royal family into custody. Do them no harm, but escort them to their apartments and keep them there, under guard."

Janos Slynt donned his helm and shouted "Men of the Watch!" before pointing his spear forward toward the enemy before them. The rest of the gold cloaks did the same, spears closing in to surround the throne.

"We want no bloodshed," Ned continued, "so tell your men to lay down their blades. No one needs to die."

The Lannister woman was now visibly paled, holding Tommen and Myrcella close; the two children were also not looking their best. Joffrey stood from his throne and was shouting. "_Kill him!_" he screamed. "_Kill all of them! I command it_!"

No one had time to respond as the Hound charged forward took of the nearest gold cloak's hand with a single swing of the sword. Blood sprayed everywhere, and for a moment, Renly though he might puke. The only sound was the screaming for a moment.

Then chaos ensued.

Janos Slynt yelled something incoherent and charged Clegane while the Lannister guardsmen charged the forefront of the enclosing gold cloak spearmen; Littlefinger was attempting to get himself and Lord Stark into the center of their allies while Joffrey was still yelling, his eyes wild with anger; the Kingsguard were enclosing around the throne, closing the half-moon to clench around the steps upwards, while Cersei and her children ran for the back door, behind the Iron Throne, for safety.

_They can't get away, _Renly thought to himself. _They're key to this – if they escape, there's no stopping Tywin Lannister from wiping King's Landing off the face of the map. _He lunged into the fray.

He had never fought without armor before; he had never really fought for his _life _before. Never had he been in true battle, and this was it. This was what Stannis told him about for all those years. _It _is _dirty. _He swung his sword in a wide arc as he got out of the boundaries of their group. Two Lannister swordsmen swung back, and Renly promptly parried one, while he swiftly jumped back when the other attacked. _I can do this, _he told himself. _Easy enough: parry, swipe, swipe, parry, parry, and swipe. _

It took him a moment to realize that he was not even trying to kill these men; they were his enemies. This was no tourney; this was real. He found himself doubtful he could do it: take a man's life. He had tried to wrap his mind around it all night the night before. He would have to kill if it came to bloodshed.

And it did.

Only then did he realize that the clash of steel could be heard near the doors of the throne room, and flashes of crimson, both wool and liquid, flapped and rained for all to see.

Renly screamed, to no one in particular, "Behind! We're being enclosed!"

Ned Stark heard him well enough, and yelled in a more commanding, experienced voice: "Spread out! Do not let them through!"

Renly frantically looked about the room, sweating profusely. He could see Lord Varys slipping away from the fighting, looking panicked. Grand Maester Pycelle looked confused, stumbling this way and that, trying to determine what he could do to escape the clash. Ser Barristan was still surrounded by Stark swords, and from the look on his face, looked ready to break out and get a sword in his hand.

Renly suddenly frowned; he only spotted four of the Kingsguard, and they were fighting off two Royce men, including Bronze Yohn himself, and three of Renly's own guard, near the Iron Throne. Renly could hear Royce yelling to the enclosing gold cloak's to leave the "whitecloaks" to him. Renly could not find Ser Arys Oakheart anywhere…

… or Joffrey.

Fear groped Renly Baratheon like no other in the room as he charged for the door behind the throne, sword tight in his grasp.

The hallway was not dark; he knew it wouldn't be. He had taken this more than a few times, whether it was for Robert wanting to break his fast with him or to take a casual walk along the battlements. At the end of the hallway, two doors would be waiting for him; one to the royal apartments near the heart of Maegor's Holdfast, and the other to the walls. Renly wagered Cersei would not want to leave the city without her valuable jewelry and fine clothes. Oakheart would want to leave right away, but the Lannister woman would insist. So, that was the door Renly took.

Renly slowed his pace as he neared the royal apartments, hearing the crashing and thrashing coming from one of the rooms: Robert and Cersei's room. Sword pointing downward, Renly snuck up next to the already-open door and listened in on whatever was going on.

He heard Ser Arys Oakheart first. "…folly, Your Grace. We need to leave _now; _the traitors are on their way here, _now_."

"You don't tell me what is happening _now, _ser; don't forget your betters like _they have_." Cersei sounded half-mad. More thumping and stomping and…

Renly recognized the other noise as crying. _Tommen… or Myrcella._ Joffrey wouldn't cry, he knew; he might have been a little shit, but he wouldn't be crying over something such as this. _Damn us all…_

Renly heard the enamored armor Ser Arys wore shake and shimmer audibly as he stomped somewhere. He heard a yelp. _Joffrey, he's got Joffrey._

Cersei let out a loud gasp. "What do you think you're doing, Oakheart?"

"The king must be kept safe," Ser Arys replied, and Renly heard another yelp, and one whimper. _Myrcella, Tommen. _"As does his heir. If you refuse to come, Your Grace, so be it. But I must do my duty –"

Suddenly, Renly heard Cersei almost growl, and he heard a crash, a loud crash. _She's tackled him. _Now was his chance; he could kick the Lannister woman off of the knight, then finish him off. But as soon as he was about to whirl around the door, he hesitated. _Gods damn it all… bastards or not, the children don't need to see their 'uncle' slaughter a man trying to protect them. _Fuck _me. _

Cersei seemed to be wailing into him; he could hear flesh hitting flesh, armor clanking and banging. She had to have some sort of dull weapon, the armor like a drum in his ears. The children were yelling incoherently, and Ser Arys cursed in anger at one point. If he had been avoiding hurting Cersei, he stopped a few moments later, as Renly saw from the corner of his vision the woman was thrown against the wall, her hair a mess and a small cut bleeding lightly on her left cheek.

Cersei shook her head slowly, looking exhausted. "My children… don't take them, my children, please… ser…"

"Damn…" the knight cursed again. "Seven hells…"

If Renly was to move, he had to move now. Joffrey could _not _leave the city. He slowly came around the door, sword in both hands, and raised it at Ser Arys, who was standing across the room in between Myrcella and Tommen(on Robert and Cersei's bed) and Joffrey and Cersei(the boy standing in shock, the woman slumped against the corner to Renly's right). "Drop your blade, ser. No more blood need be spilled."

Ser Arys Oakheart was a comely man, and Renly would not deny his bed to him, that was for sure. His face was clean shaven, his hair kept long. His enameled chestplate was dented in several areas, his helm lying on the royal bed. Fresh scratches were all over his face, most likely from Cersei's clawing. _Animalistic, _Renly thought humorously. _No wonder everyone wants her in their beds._

Ser Arys looked to Renly, sizing him up and down. "Lord Renly. Among the traitors I had not assumed you would be in their ranks."

"We are not traitors," Renly stated, his sword wavering. "We are merely attempting to wrest Joffrey away from _her _hands." He snapped his head in Cersei's direction, who was still dazed from being thrown against the stone. "We only want what's best for the king."

Ser Arys spit onto the Myrish carpet that led from the door to the dining table on the other side of the room. "Folly, this is all folly. I'll show you what's best for the king." The white knight drew his blade, pointing it directly at Renly.

His brow began to sweat nervously. "Ser, I beg of you, do not make me do this."

"If it's dying you speak of, I have no quarrel with it," Ser Arys Oakheart proclaimed. Then he lunged.

Renly parried the first swing, aimed for his legs, but could not stand against the white knight's full weight being thrown at him, shoulder first. Arys' right pauldron slammed into his face, and the world went white with pain.

He regained his sight perhaps a few moments later – it felt like hours – and felt liquid running from his nose, and could barely breathe through his nostrils. Renly raised his hand to feel his nose, but was soon aware of a plated boot slamming into his chest, knocking the breath right out of him. Struggling for air, crawling away, searching for safety, Renly Baratheon knew this was the end. He would die for this damnable power struggle.

He would die for the sake of crowning a boy whose throne was not even rightfully his.

Suddenly, the ringing of his ears stopped, and he could hear a clashing of steel, armor clanking and banging. _The others, _he thought. _They've come. _But when he looked on the two fighters, his vision adjusting, he recognized the silvery armor of his lover, a golden rose decorating his green-linen tabard.

Slash after slash, parry after parry, swing after swing, punch after punch, the two knights fought in the narrow highway, cursing eachother as they moved further away from the king's apartments. Renly slowly began crawling towards his sword, it being kicked away a few feet away from him.

As his hand lay itself on the hilt of the blade, Renly was once again kicked, this time in the face, and not by a man's boot. Cersei Lannister took advantage of Renly's deliriousness and began scratching and smacking and slamming her fists down on his face, neck, chest, whatever she could scratch or smack or hit. She roared like a lion, he swore he heard it, before he finally pushed her off with all his strength, and grabbed his sword.

Swinging the blade in all directions, not hitting anything but stone wall, Renly yelled in defiance. If he was to die, he would take the evil Lannister bitch with him, at least. He rose from the ground as best he could and swung around, sword clenched in both hands, his hair a mess. Renly knew how wild he must have looked, as Cersei looked genuinely afraid of him as he moved closer, placing the tip of the sword near her face as she slumped against the wall just beside the door to the room she had been in.

Renly Baratheon cocked his head at her, and chuckled a bit. "You're as wild as Robert said you are."

She hissed at him; literally hissed at him. _Gods, animal to the bone._ He felt no regret, surprisingly; he had wanted to put Cersei in her place for some time, after all. At least he didn't have to kill anyone in front of the children. At least he didn't have to kill anyone _at all. _Renly laughed again, blowing his hair out of his face briefly as he looked down the hall. Ser Arys and Loras were now so far down the hall that he could only hear the clashing of steel.

"Your little toy will be meeting the end of a sword, soon, my lord," Cersei said savagely. "His flowery head will make a fine decoration on the battlements."

Renly glared at the Lannister woman, angered. "Do you ever learn when to shut your damnable mouth, Cersei?"

"Do you ever learn when to close yours to Loras' cock, I wonder?"

"_Shut your mouth, you golden-haired bitch!" _Renly would suffer the jests no more; they ended today. Renly raised his boot and kicked her square in the nose… something he thought he would never do. To anyone, for that matter, let alone Cersei; either way, her nose burst just like Renly's had when he made contact with Arys' shoulder. She went silent. Her chest rose and fell, rose and fell. _She lives, _Renly knew. He lowered his sword, and backed up, looking up at the ceiling, and began to laugh. Loudly.

He laughed for what seemed like an eternity. But when he was done, he had to wipe his eyes of the tears, and his nose of the blood. Then, Renly turned to enter the royal apartments.

Myrcella held Tommen on the bed, both of them sobbing and glaring at Renly Baratheon in fear. They had moved up to the pillows. Joffrey was sitting in a chair, holding his head in his hands, muttering angrily. Renly regarded all three of them, his smile quickly fading. He put his hand on the bed and Myrcella kicked it away with a yelp.

He was heartbroken; Myrcella had always loved him. Tommen never had that look when he looked to Renly; the young prince had always looked up to his 'uncle', admired him. Renly dropped the sword to the ground, the steel clashing against the stone. "Myrcella, sweetheart… and Tommen, my golden knight… there's no need…"

Suddenly, Renly realized that the fighting down the hall had ceased. _Loras, _he thought. Twirling around, however, Renly almost ran into the victor, standing in the doorway.

He wanted to smile, he wanted to cry, he wanted to embrace him so much… but the children were here. Cersei could awake. He had to refrain. "Ser Loras… where is Ser…" Renly studied his face, cocked his head, puzzled. It was the same comely face he had fallen in love with… but dots and streams of crimson now made their home on it; and on his silvery armor, and his Tyrell tabard; and his whole sword was just covered in it. Red, red, red…

"Oh." Renly Baratheon did not know whether he said it as a question, statement, or something else. "Oh…"

It seemed like an eternity before the children realized what had happened.

And then they wailed.


	3. King of the Painted Table

**Author's Note: I will be stopping with the disclaimers now, because I'm sure that everyone knows from who and where the characters and various things in this story originate from. **

**I apologize for the larger wait than usual, but I can explain myself: I have actually been writing two chapters simultaneously, so I could get the story going that much faster. The next chapter will follow this one soon, I assure you. Not to mention I have been a lot busier with school than I usually am.**

**Also, just a warning, there is some (kind of) smut near the end of the chapter.**

**But anyways, I'd like to thank those of you have left a review; I very much appreciate it, they keep me motivated to write more.**

**STANNIS**

Maester Cressen had handed him the letter whole, but it left it in several pieces. Scattering across the painted table, pushed by both the wind and Stannis Baratheon's fury, the parchment slowly found its way back to Cressen's feet.

Stannis, his rage abated, found himself leaning over the painted table, his arms shaking in anger, his breathing rapid. _My rightful throne, usurped right out from under me by the Stark that Jon Arryn spoke so highly of. Damn the man, damn him to all seven hells. And his puppet abomination as well, all three of them; I'll see them all burn._

At that thought he looked to the woman to his right, but only for a moment; she was staring at him with her fiery eyes, in her fiery robes, with her fiery necklace glowing redder than red. Sometimes Stannis thought Melisandre of Asshai wore the necklace to live, but she had told him several times that were not the case. Another gust of wind blew her hair upwards, and for a second it looked as if she were some sort of fiery witch. _That's no doubt what our Onion Knight thinks her. Some sort of witch, come to sow dissent. They'll see what power she holds. Ned Stark especially. And _Renly_. And the rest of the damned usurpers. _

Stannis scowled at the thought of them all. "They dare to throw this in my face? This is to make mock of me," he declared with mirth. "They steal the throne and have the _gall _to name it Joffrey's?"

"My lord," Cressen, in his old, raspy voice said, "they are merely blind to the facts." The venerable maester moved to lean against the painted table, his hands resting shakily on Dorne. Stannis himself stood just below his seat, near Dragonstone in the narrow sea. "Eddard Stark is a man of honor; perhaps this is some sort of… code. This invitation has more to it. I can feel it."

The Red Woman picked up one of the scraps of what remained of the letter, examining it. Her voice was musical, and sounded as if she was born in Westeros herself, though she claimed she was not. "Maester, you mistake this as courtesy and code. These usurpers seek to deny the Lord's Chosen his rightful throne."

The old man that was once Stannis's most trusted adviser and friend seethed, his face getting almost as red as Melisandre's robes. "What do you know of it? I have studied the politics and courtesies and customs of Westeros since I first stepped foot in the Citadel and began forging my chain." He jerked on it symbolically. "You have not seen a single court other than the one here on this dreadful island—"

Stannis slammed his fist down on the table. "Enough, Cressen!" The old man silenced, and the Red Woman smiled lightly. Stannis turned back toward King's Landing, and glared with every ounce of anger in him. "Summon Ser Davos and Ser Axell here immediately, Pylos." The young maester, sent to Dragonstone by the Citadel as a successor to Cressen should he die in his old age, bowed and hurried out. Stannis continued. "Cressen, if you'd be so kind as to hand me that quill and parchment over there."

Cressen stood still for a moment, but began slowly making his way to the other side of the painted table, cane tapping against the stone, and finally made it to Stannis's side. He took the items from the maester's hand and said not a word.

He wrote in silence until Ser Davos Seaworth and Ser Axell Florent both arrived. The former held more respect from Stannis, considering he saved him and his men both from starvation during the siege at Storm's End. Ser Axell was his wife's uncle, the castellan of Dragonstone. Stannis suffered him in silence, with the knight's constant attempts to flatter him and gain more favor with the Lord of Dragonstone. _If he wants favor, he'll follow me into this pit I'm digging for myself._

The smuggler-turned-knight that was Davos Seaworth bowed to his lord, followed by Ser Axell's rather lower bow. _He'd lick my boots if Davos had bowed any deeper. _"My lord," the Onion Knight said, quickly echoed by another "Lord Stannis" from Ser Axell.

Stannis barely spared them a nod before motioning them to sit across from him, both of them resting near the western side of the table. He looked over each of them for a good moment. "It seems my… regal brother, has passed on."

Davos looked flabbergasted; he was of common birth, and did not know what to say in situations such as this. To a man of high birth, anyways. "You have my deepest condolences, my lord. I heard His Grace was… well, I'd heard anyways… that he was a man of greatness. Will we be travelling to the funeral?"

"Aye, it is prudent, my lord," Ser Axell chimed in not-so-melodically. "I will see to matters here while you are away."

"No need, Ser Axell. I will handle matters perfectly fine here on my own." The two knights seemed confused, and Stannis looked down at what he had written on the parchment. "The Hand of the King, Eddard Stark, has usurped the throne and is using the Lannister whore's monster as a puppet to rule through." He let that sink in, and both knights looked as Cressen had the day Steffon Baratheon's ship was wrecked just a mile off the coast of the stormlands: pale and shocked. _Don't worry, my little lords, _the maester had said, _I will take care of you… I will take care of you… _

Stannis shook the thought away; his head was starting to hurt. He stared at the letter once again for a moment. "The crown prince and his siblings are all bastards, born of incest, from the unsightly union of Cersei Lannister and her brother, Ser Jaime." He let that sink in as well. "Cressen read this if you would be so kind." He handed the old man the letter.

The frail maester shook his head ever so lightly. "Pylos, I –" He turned around and began to look for Pylos, but he was without.

Stannis was reminded too late of the old man's vision leaving him. He sighed and reached for the letter, sternly but politely. Cressen was thankful; Stannis could see it in his aging eyes. Stannis Baratheon read the letter aloud, for all in the chamber to hear:

"_All men know me for the trueborn son of Steffon Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, by his lady wife Cassana of House Estermont. I declare upon the honor of my House that my brother Robert, our late king, left no trueborn issue of his body, the boy Joffrey, the boy Tommen, and the girl Myrcella being abominations born of incest between Cersei Lannister and her brother Ser Jaime the Kingslayer. Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, supposed honored friend and former Hand to my late brother, has usurped my rightful throne by placing the bastard Joffrey upon the Iron Throne as a puppet, ruling through him as a figurehead for his own ambitions. By right of birth and blood, I do this day lay claim to the Iron Throne of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. Let all true men declare their loyalty. _

_Done in the Light of the Lord, under the sign and seal of Stannis of House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms."_

Stannis allowed that to be absorbed by all in attendance – _My skeleton council. _– before continuing. "Maester Cressen, how many ravens do we have on hand?"

Cressen frowned, concentrating. "I believe… around two-hundred, my – Your Grace." Cressen seemed to already be adapting to the new title Stannis had just given himself. _Let us hope it sticks. _

Stannis Baratheon nodded, and then turned back to the Painted Table, glaring across all the length of it. "I intend to use them all. The first will be sent to my lords' bannermen, to inform them of my rightful claim. Cressen, have Pylos write the amount of letters he needs, summon them all; Celtigar, Sunglass, Velaryon, Bar Emmon, all of them. Though it will do little to help." Stannis knew he sounded pessimistic; but that is how he had been all his life. And he was not going to change now, especially now, in this moment of reckoning. "The rest will fly across the realm, carrying every copy of this same letter to every corner of the Seven Kingdoms, from the Arbor to the Wall. Most will make it, no doubt, unless the summer rains catch them first. Or my enemies' arrows. All the lords of Westeros will be read my letter by their maesters in their septs, solars, and bedchambers. No doubt these copies will be thrown in the fire at first sight; all of these mentioned lords loved Robert, as he never loved me and as they will never love me. They will love Ned Stark's puppet abomination, dancing to his strings. To _Renly's _strings as well, no doubt, and Littlefinger's, and the Spider's. Maybe even Pycelle, if the prune still lives. Always been a Lannister puppet, that one. They will all deny me as their rightful king, if they can. So I have need of you."

Both Ser Davos and Ser Axell bowed, standing now after such a speech from their brooding lord. _Now I am their brooding _king, Stannis had to remember. _I have never had a desire to rule, yet rule I must. Great or small, we must all do our duty. _Almost in sync, the knights said "I am yours, Your Grace."

Stannis moved along the table slowly, toward the Vale of Arryn. "Ser Davos, you are to sail _Black Betha _north, to Gulltown and the Fingers and the Three Sisters. White Harbor as well. Your son, Dale, will sail south, all along the coast, through the Stepstones and past the Broken Arm until he reaches the Arbor and even Oldtown, if he can manage it. Each of you will carry a chest of letters, these letters the same as the one I hold in my hand and you will post them on every sept and holdfast and smallhall in every village you find for all to see."

"Forgive me for saying so, Your Grace," Ser Davos replied, "but there are many more than I who have not the ability to read letters on paper."

"Which is why Ser Axell here will accompany you, along with Pylos." Seeing the look on Cressen's face at that, Stannis held up a hand to stop any protest that might've come out of his mouth. "I will get you a new assistant until he returns, old man, do not fret."

"That is not what I fret for," Cressen replied. "Any man that refuses to believe the truth behind your words will be angered by them, no doubt. Pylos is no knight or soldier; what if they attack him and Dale? War is not Pylos's best subject –"

"He will learn, then," Stannis snapped, becoming annoyed. "War is upon us, whether Pylos has studied it or not. We must _all _do our part in it."

Cressen bowed his head, visibly hurt. _Damn it, old man, why must you do this to me. _Stannis sighed and turned back to the table. "Ser Davos, your second son will also play a part in this. Allard will take _Lady Marya _and sail for Braavos, Pentos, and the other Free Cities. He will speak with the men who rule them and inform them of my claim, and of the Lannister whore's infamy, as well as Eddard Stark's treason."

Davos glanced over at Melisandre, and Stannis noticed the look. The Red Woman had barely even breathed since Stannis summoned them all to the chamber. Turning to her, he examined the red priestess for a moment. Then to Cressen, his eyes lingering on him longer then even Melisandre. "All but Ser Davos and Cressen: leave me."

Melisandre stood still for a moment, and her necklace shined brighter, but she obeyed, bowed, and left, along with Ser Axell who left almost as reluctantly.

Stannis moved slowly as he turned to grab the raised seat behind him, dragging it across the room toward Cressen, placing it behind him. The old maester stared at him incredulously, and Stannis motioned towards it. "Sit. Your legs are shaking."

Cressen had an even more thankful look in his eyes as he sat down, and Stannis turned to regard Davos. "What is it that you could not say in the presence of Lady Melisandre, ser?"

Davos looked troubled. "What is your red priestess –"

"Do not speak of her as if she is a pet," Stannis snapped, his jaw clenching.

"Very well, Your Grace, what is _Lady Melisandre _to do while we are out carrying out your declaration?"

Stannis had not thought of that. He frowned. "She will stay here on Dragonstone, advise me and whatnot. What else is there for her to do?"

Cressen muttered something but Stannis paid it no mind. Davos continued. "Perhaps instead of my son, you could send _her _east. She must know the customs and languages of the Free Cities better than Allard does. I have heard the Pentoshi worship the same deity as she does, the Volantenes as well."

"It is my deity as well as hers, Davos." Stannis told himself that all the time, but he knew it wasn't true; he stopped believing in gods the day the _Windproud _smashed itself on the cliffs of Cape Wrath. Stannis might not believe in the flame god Melisandre brought to Dragonstone, but he believed in the power this priestess held at her disposal. Stannis returned his mind to the present, and he knew that Davos was right. Still… Stannis wanted her on Dragonstone as well. Strangely, he felt… unsafe without her there. As if her mere presence was enough to protect him from his enemies. Stannis knew that wasn't true. He sighed. "Lady Melisandre will sail for the Free Cities as well."

Davos looked confused, worried. "As well?"

_Here comes the endless protest of the Shorthand. _"The _Lady Marya _and your son will still sail… with the priestess aboard."

"Your Grace, I apologize, but I did protest because I was trying to keep Allard away from that pit of vipers they call a continent."

Stannis glared at the Onion Knight, scowling and grinding his teeth. "Allard will protect Lady Melisandre and stand as an advocate." Upon Davos opening his mouth again, Stannis raised a hand. "I'll hear no more of it. I am your king and lord, Ser Davos. You followed me to this day for one reason, in my eyes: you trust me. The day I cut your fingers in half was the day you changed into the man you are this day. And that is also the day I earned your trust. That same day, I felt a similar feeling for you, Davos. You relieved us all in the siege of Storm's End, bringing us eel and onions and other things, saved us all. We both trust each other, do we not?" He didn't wait for an answer. "You must trust me, still, with this. Now, leave me. Tell Pylos to get to writing on your way out. Inform your sons of their tasks."

Davos blinked for a moment, frowning with that worried look he had. "Aye, Your Grace." The knight bowed before striding out.

Cressen waited until the door was shut, far across the chamber, before he said, "Ser Davos loves his sons. Far more than any other man I've met." The old man stopped for a moment, sighing. "Do not send them to their deaths, Stannis."

"We're at war, old man," Stannis replied angrily. "Men die in war. That's life."

"They don't have to be _those _men."

"Davos's sons have served me loyally since they were old enough to swear oaths to me. Their father and you seem to be the only ones that object to their tasks." Stannis shook his head. "No, they will go. My mind is set."

Cressen sighed once again and shook his bald head. "Then what is it that you have kept me here for? Not for my wisdom, surely."

Stannis stared him down for a moment, and then moved a bit south of Dragonstone, running his fingers along Cape Wrath and the rest of the stormlands. "I need an envoy to the storm lords. A man good with words, a man that has lived there for most of his life…" _He will hate me for this, I know. But with Davos heading north for the nonce, there really is no other…_

Stannis looked at Cressen, and he saw sadness in the maester's eyes. "The only other man that I trust to get it done."

Cressen looked as if he was going to cry. "You would send me? My frail body can barely handle the weather here on this desolate island. Gods only know what will happen to it if I return to the place I only now have dreams of."

"You served at Storm's End since you forged your chain. You know the lords, the Houses, their words, their history. You are the man I need, Cressen."

"I am a maester, Stannis," Cressen replied in an angry tone. Stannis stared him down for a moment, and the maester visibly calmed. "I did not mean to get angry, I apologize."

Stannis continued to stare at him. "Go on."

Cressen looked surprised. "I meant… my place is here, my king. I am no envoy. I am a servant of Dragonstone, as I was to Storm's End before me."

"And yet you left Storm's End. For me." Cressen had been like a father to him since Lord Steffon and Lady Cassana had died. He left Storm's End to serve Stannis in that capacity still, leaving his place there for Dragonstone. "If I could, I would go myself. You know this. But that is not how things work, not for now. I need you for this, Cressen."

They continued arguing well into the night, and Stannis was on the verge of throwing the man down the stairs of the Stone Drum several times. Cressen finally gave in and accepted the task, however, and left without a "Your Grace" muttered.

Stannis moved to the balcony and looked up at the stars that Cressen had once taught him about; he knew several constellations, the old man did. But astronomy was never Stannis's strong suit. Stannis knew war more than anything; commanding men in battle, fighting with sword in hand, military logistics, and the history of all the great wars in Westeros and beyond. He sighed as his thoughts strayed from Cressen and war to Robert and Renly.

He had never loved his brothers, and they had never loved him. Robert was lord of Storm's End upon father's death, and he had little time for sibling bonding, and even when they did have time for it, Robert spent his time doing other things. Stannis and Renly never got along; their personalities were too different. _I still remember when Renly used to want to play at swords and I'd be too busy learning about the Conquest of Dorne or the Valyrian campaigns. _At times Stannis found himself wishing he had played at swords with his younger brother, spent more time with Robert.

He couldn't spend more time with Robert, now however. But now he will be doing more than playing at swords with Renly.

After a while of thinking to himself, Stannis then summoned Melisandre back to the chamber, so they could speak in private and he could tell her the task he would send her on. Stannis was still staring out into the narrow sea from the balcony when she arrived, red robes flowing with the cold wind drafting in from the east. "Summer is ending," Stannis said, to himself more than Melisandre.

"And with it comes a new beginning, my king." Melisandre moved slowly to his side, staring out to sea with him.

Stannis glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, and then turned his gaze back east. "You are to sail east upon the morrow with Davos's son."

Melisandre chuckled lightly, her ruby glowing a bit brighter. "You think I do not already know?" When Stannis frowned at her confusedly, she smiled playfully. "R'hllor has shown me the path I will travel. He has shown me a city, filled to the brim with fat men with cheese and gold pouring out of their hands. He has shown me fire and blood, stretching from the grassland to a red desert, covered in a garden of bones. And…"

Stannis turned to her. "And what? What else have you seen in your magic fires, woman?!"

The Red Woman stared at him, her eyes practically glowing red. "And I saw you, my king, bringing hope to the Lord's servants and death to His enemies."

"That's all well and good, but what of _my _enemies? They are more visible than R'hllor's are, surely."

"Your enemies are the Lord's enemies, Your Grace. You are his chosen champion, Azor Ahai reborn, the Son of Fire…"

"Aye, I've heard it hundreds of times since you've come to my grey little island, and yet still there is no proof of it." Stannis grabbed Melisandre by the shoulders and shook her a bit. "Show me where your god is, woman. Have him bring fire and death to those that would take my throne, to all the usurpers in King's Landing. _Show me!_"

Melisandre's eyes glowed even brighter as he shook her more violently, and then, seemingly out of nowhere, she kissed him.

It was a small one, but she did not retreat after it was landed. Stannis frowned, his heart beating faster. He had never felt so… warm, before. He could feel movement under his pants. "I… I have a wife, my lady. Selyse is… I mean… I must not dishonor her."

Melisandre leaned up and whispered into his ear. He could feel the softness of her breath on his cheek. "You told me to show you the power of R'hllor, my king. And I shall… by giving you a _son_."

Stannis Baratheon blinked, staring at the wall behind Melisandre. "A son…" _An heir… she will produce me an heir. A prince, to succeed me on the throne that is rightfully mine. Selyse…_

"Take me," the Red Woman whispered, and Stannis did.

Throwing her onto the Painted Table, Stannis ripped her robes off of her and threw them aside, quickly undoing his wool pants and throwing them aside as well. Melisandre moaned, and moaned, and Stannis felt as he had never felt before.

"My king," Melisandre whispered passionately, "oh, my king, please, I will give you a son. I beg of you, please, please."

After they finished, Stannis lay atop her, this time whispering into her ear. "Stay," he said, "stay here, with me. Give me a son, as many sons as you can, as I need. We will kill the usurpers _together_. Allard can go himself. Stay here, forever."

**End Note: I'm new to writing sexual intercourse and whatnot so go easy on me with the description. Hope you enjoyed the chapter and I'll get another update up soon!**


	4. A Convocation of Lions

**Side Notes: Thank you to all of you who have taken the time to read this story. It's not the best writing, but at least you all like it. The reviews keep the cogs moving. I can't thank you enough!**

**TYRION**

Lord Tywin Lannisters camp spread over miles. Leagues, even. The sounds of hoof beats, chiseling hammers, crackling fires, loud curses, steel ringing on steel, and arrows flying at their straw targets filled the air. _Father has brought the whole of the west with him, _Tyrion Lannister thought to himself as he and his motley band made their way among the tents and men.

_The inn at the crossroads, _Ser Flement Brax had told him. That is where he'd find his father. _The gods _are _just after all. I wonder what he's done with the innkeep. _"A gold dragon says the woman is hanged somewhere," Tyrion said aloud.

Bronn rode to his side, gazing about the camp, a shine in his blackish eyes. His shaggy, greasy hair shone in the afternoon light, and he looked every bit the sellsword with his scraggly beard and plentiful scars. "I agree with you," the mercenary replied vaguely. "No wager needed."

Tyrion chuckled and looked behind him, examining the faces of his clansmen. Shagga was gaping around him, Chella blank faced, and Timett looked as if he was going to rip someone's head off in a single movement, for no apparent reason. In truth, all of them somewhat looked the same as Timett in terms of head-ripping-capability and a desire to do so.

As they neared the inn, memory came flooding back to Tyrion; it felt like years since he'd last been here, though it was only a few months ago when Catelyn Stark took him prisoner, along with all of her damnable riverlander knights. The place was much as he remembered stables and all. The surrounding village was a blackened husk of burnt wood and shattered foundation, however, a small testament as to what Tywin Lannister was capable of. _He will make certain that this village is forgotten by time. All for me; his disappointment._

A makeshift gallows had been erected in front of the inn's main entrance, and from it hanged a body he suspected to be the former innkeep's. Tyrion couldn't tell because of all the ravens, pecking at the pale dead flesh. Dismounting, the dwarf waddled over to shoo the crows away. All that remained of her face was… well, there was little to describe. Most of the flesh had been eaten from her cheeks and lips, baring her red-stained teeth in a hideous grin. Tyrion sighed, and moved to enter the inn. Before doing so, he turned to Bronn. "Have the stablehands deal with the horses. Wait here until I return."

Shagga dismounted hesitantly, and growled Tyrion. "Boyman leaves Shagga here to stand and stare at red tents while the boyman eats food by fire?"

"Boyman," Tyrion retorted, annoyed, "is going to speak with his lord father and inquire as to where Shagga and all of the rest of you will be camped for the night."

"Too many words," Shagga replied, gripping his axe. "But Shagga will wait. But only for more riches."

Tyrion sighed exasperatedly and nodded. "Yes, yes, fine." He looked to Bronn, waving his arm nonchalantly at the other four chieftains behind Shagga. "Make sure they don't kill anyone, would you?"

Bronn sniffled, looked back at the clansmen, then back to Tyrion. "I'll try my damnedest."

Tyrion found Lord Tywin just inside, in the common room of the inn, where Catelyn Stark had taken him, Jyck and Morrec. His uncle, Ser Kevan, stood beside his father, the latter holding a letter so tightly Tyrion thought it might start bleeding.

Kevan looked up in surprise, a frown forming on his brow. "Tyrion," he said.

"Uncle Kevan," Tyrion said with a bow. He turned to Lord Tywin. "A fine camp you've established, my lord, almost as fine as the corpse hanging outside." Tyrion moved to the table, taking a seat right across from his father. A flagon of wine sat to his right, and he helped himself, half expecting Lord Tywin to halt him.

But he didn't; he just stared at the letter in his hand for a full minute, silently, and then lightly tossed it across the table for his son to read. Tyrion frowned, seeing the grim look on Tywin's face, and reached for the parchment. It had been sealed with burgundy wax, the seal being that of the Hand of the King's. He opened it.

_Lord Tywin Lannister,_

_Your pillaging of the riverlands and all the domains of the Houses of the region, falling under the jurisdiction of House Tully of Riverrun, and furthermore under the protection of King Joffrey, the First of His Name, must cease immediately. You are disrupting the king's peace blatantly and without remorse, and His Grace is most distressed to hear of it. Consider this as your final warning: withdraw all westerlander armies from the riverlands, and return them to the lands that fall under your own jurisdiction, or you and all lords, knights, and men-at-arms that follow you will be branded enemies of the crown and traitors to the realm. Furthermore, you are to ride for King's Landing immediately, to answer for your crimes against House Tully and their bannermen and their smallfolk. Failure to comply with this will also result in your being named a traitor._

_Done in the sight of gods old and new, under the sign and seal of Eddard of House Stark, Lord Regent, Protector of the Realm, Hand of the King, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North._

Tyrion's mouth gaped by the time he had reached the fourth sentence of the passage. "Does this mean that our beloved King Robert has passed, then?"

"What do you think?" Tywin snapped at him, quite angrily in fact.

Tyrion sniffled, and then set the letter down carefully, his hands shaking lightly. "Apparently Ned Stark is more power hungry than we initially thought. I have a feeling he has more than just the title of Lord Protector as his shield against us."

"We have assumed as such, as well," Kevan replied.

Tyrion glanced at Lord Tywin, then back to the letter. _I need wine, _he thought, pouring himself a cup and taking a gulp. "At least we can take comfort in the fact that Joffrey and Tommen and Myrcella are still living. Cersei, however…"

"She still lives," Tywin declared, brooking now argument. "Stark wouldn't harm them if there was no reason to. He will use them against us until they are useless to him."

Tyrion knew that to be true; Ned Stark was not a man to kill children. He remembered Jaime telling him all about how Stark had been a strong advocate against killing Rhaegar Targaryen's children, even though the deed had already been done by the time the Mountain got to the royal apartments. "True, my lord, but what are we to do of the whole situation? With the royal family in captivity, I see not the purpose in fighting any longer."

His father looked on him with disdain. "That is because you do not have a mind for warfare." Lord Tywin pulled a map seemingly out of nowhere and laid it out on top of the table. From the look in his gold flecked eyes, it seemed the Lord of Casterly Rock suddenly forgot about their situation. "When the lion leaves his den, there is naught to do but to finish what he left for. From what I have heard, you are the one that started all of this. If you would not have submitted to capture to a woman so meekly, the royal family would be free, still."

"Well, perhaps if it were Jaime, things would have been different. Perhaps Catelyn Stark's head would be the cause of all this mess instead of my meekness."

Tywin continued, undeterred. "The honor of our House was at stake, and if I did not ride, the Seven Kingdoms would have mocked us. No man or woman sheds Lannister blood with impunity."

Tyrion grinned. "_Hear Me Roar. _You will be happy to know, however, that barely a hair on my head was harmed, lord father, much less bled. Morrec and Jyck were killed."

Lord Tywin looked aggravated. "We cannot discuss the trivialities of your adventures at the present time. We have a war to fight."

Tyrion frowned. "Surely you don't mean to continue? Not with Joff and the rest in Stark captivity?"

"And why not," his father asked. "The Starks and their allies need to learn that Lannisters pay their debts. And we owe them a significant one."

"Indeed," his uncle said. "And that debt is being paid in full. The Tullys could not withstand us, and by the time Ser Edmure knew what was happening, we had pushed deep into his territory."

"Your brother has been covering himself in glory," Lord Tywin stated. "After defeating the forces of Houses Piper and Vance beneath the Golden Tooth, Jaime smashed the massed force of the riverlords beneath the walls of Riverrun. The riverlords have been put to rout, and Ser Edmure has been taken captive, along with several other of Hoster Tully's bannermen and knights. Tytos Blackwood led the few survivors back into Riverrun, and Jaime has them under siege. The Trident is open to us, now, and none of the riverlords can stand in the way of Lannister vengeance."

Kevan shook his head and pointed to both Seagard and the Twins. "All but the Mallisters and Freys, that is. Lord Walder may be counted on to do nothing, but Lord Jason on the other hand is a loyal servant of the Tullys. He will not give up too easily."

"The Mallisters lack the men to fight us," Tywin replied. "Walder Frey will bend the knee easy enough, as well. But there is another obstacle ahead of us that we need to address." Tywin ran his hand along the entirety of the north as he spoke. "Ned Stark will no doubt send ravens, calling his banners and whoever else will assist him to King's Landing. The northerners will obey him, of course, and the Arryns may well come to the aid of the traitor."

Tyrion leaned over the table, trying to get a good overview of the map. "I highly doubt the latter; Lady Arryn seemed predisposed toward _not _assisting her family in any way. She will sit in the Eyrie and wait out the storm until it passes."

"The longer she sits sedentary in her mountain fortress, the better," Tywin replied. "The little lord Arryn will listen to whatever she has to say, I have no doubt." His father turned his eyes to Winterfell. "The eldest Stark boy, however, is another story. Ned Stark will no doubt want one of his bannermen to command the northern force, but his son will hear none of it. Robb Stark will command the northern army, and we will meet him on the field of battle."

Tyrion frowned once again. "If we capture Robb Stark, we can broker a prisoner exchange."

Tywin's gold flecked eyes scanned his son's own. "Yes." His father turned back to the map. "The northerners will not march to face us, however. Ned Stark will command them explicitly to march for the capital, to protect the city against assault."

"Which means," Tyrion said, "you will need to make certain they don't make it there."

Lord Tywin traced his fingers along the kingsroad, from Winterfell to King's Landing. "The Stark boy will follow the kingsroad, unless Ned Stark commands him otherwise, but it is the quickest way to the capital for an army on the move. Any man versed in warfare knows that." His father's fingers rested on the Trident, the ruby ford specifically – their current location. "We will intercept the Stark host here. We need not move until they arrive, and with that amount of time, we can use the surrounding woodland to create a palisade and be ready for any sort of attack. Meanwhile, once we repel the Stark forces, Jaime will have ample time to secure Riverrun and the Tullys inside of it. Once we get a hold of Lord Hoster, and Robb Stark, we will send word to King's Landing that a prisoner exchange is at hand."

"And what," Tyrion asked, "lord father, makes you believe that Ned Stark will exchange the only people that allow him to keep his head for his wife's family and perhaps his son?" Tyrion reached across the table to grab the wine pitcher, but Lord Tywin stopped him, a glassy and angered look in his eyes. Tyrion grimaced and sat back down. "Surely Lord Eddard will want to keep his son's head on his shoulders, but Catelyn Tully's family is another ordeal entirely. The wolf and the trout love eachother dearly, to be sure, but something tells me that Lord Stark will not give up the royal family for two Tullys and his son. _Should _he be captured, that is…"

Lord Tywin Lannister's eyes gleamed for a moment, and without even turning his head or waving his hand, he said, commandingly, "Kevan, leave us for a moment."

His uncle looked flabbergasted for a split second, but recovered almost immediately for a moment, and then bowed. As he got to the door, however, the thing burst open and nothing could have stopped Ser Kevan from falling as the wooden planks slammed into his face, landing against the cobblestone hearth nearby with a curse. Shagga stomped into the room, the captain of his father's guards being dragged by the hair close behind him, and threw him down before Tyrion as he propelled himself from the bench. Shagga's stench followed his entrance, and Tyrion found himself scowling. "What is the meaning of this?"

The big lumbering oaf of a Stone Crow spit full on in the guard's face, then sniffed, looking down on Tyrion with a raised chin. "The redcape drew steel on Shagga, so the son of Dolf has brought him in to chop off his manhood and cook them in a stew."

Tyrion scoffed and turned back to the table, just noticing a plate of cheese and another platter of bread. "No goats, I take it," he muttered. He nonchalantly grabbed a piece of the cheese and wrapped a bit of bread around it. Bronn followed the barbaric fool in, along with the other clansmen. Tyrion glared at the sellsword. "I told you to watch them and keep them in line."

Bronn shrugged. "I watched Shagga, it didn't help. And it's hard to keep a lot like this in line, m'lord. Even for me."

Lord Tywin stood, pushing the bench back with a screech of wood on wood. "Who are your… companions, Tyrion?"

Tyrion wiped his mouth; the cheese was more than ripe, but it still filled the belly. "My saviors, really. Whilst I and my friend, Bronn here, were making our merry way through the Vale of Arryn, after we were so kindly escorted from the Eyrie, Shagga here found us, and saw us through the mountains." Tyrion turned to regard them all, a sort of pride welling up inside of him. "The rest, well, I recruited."

Ser Kevan, still shocked after his sudden fall, rose to his feet, rubbing his face. "Recruited? You _recruited _these savages with naught but your words?"

"Savages?!" Conn's bellow echoed throughout the room. "We are free men, lowlander."

"And women," Chella daughter of Cheyk reminded the Stone Crow.

Lord Tywin had remained still and silent until then. "Tyrion, you have yet to introduce us to our guests."

Tyrion glanced longingly at the wine pitcher, but turned toward his clansmen. "With pleasure, my lord."

After he introduced them all to his father, Tyrion began to list all of Lord Tywin's many titles, but soon after he began, a messenger rushed into the still open door, and after a worried glance towards the clansmen, the man kneeled before his father. "Forgive the intrusion, my lord, but Ser Addam commanded me to ride here with all haste. The Stark host has been sighted moving down the causeway in the Neck, and is close to the Twins by now."

Tyrion flinched lightly at that; he did not expect the Starks to react so quickly. _Lord Eddard is efficient indeed; he must have sent ravens as soon as he consolidated his power._

Lord Tywin Lannister did not smile at the news, but Tyrion had learned to read his father, and he could tell he was pleased at the news. "The sooner the pup marches south, the better. Ride back to Ser Addam and tell him to fall back for now, and to not engage the northern host, but to harass their flanks. That will draw them further south."

The rider nodded firmly and swiftly exited as he had entered; glancing nervously at the clansmen.

Lord Tywin seemed to analyze the whole of the room, even the empty parts, before turning back to the clansmen. "I shall arrange for a solitary part of the camp for you to rest," he said to all of them. "In the meantime… Kevan, I trust you can handle our honored guests and find them some proper steel?"

Ser Kevan blinked for a moment, still rubbing his nose, and nodded reluctantly. "I can, my lord." His uncle moved cautiously around the clansmen, but had to stop at the door because they were all looking at Tyrion rather than following him.

The dwarf blinked and looked at them each in turn, Bronn being the last. "Well, go on. My uncle is a kind man, I am sure you will enjoy him."

"I will enjoy what I want to enjoy, little man," Timett replied angrily. "You do not command Timett son of Timett."

"Fine, fair enough, leave me to my cheese." Tyrion angrily grabbed his cheese and stuffed it in his mouth, as if to prove a point.

After Bronn and Kevan and the rest left, it was only Tyrion and his beloved father in the room he was captured in. Lord Tywin sat down once again, and poured some wine into a mug sitting off to the side. Before Tyrion could even think about pouring his own, his father slid the mug across the table. The son analyzed the father, frowning, before taking a sip.

Lord Tywin rubbed his chin with two fingers, looking on his son. "You are correct about Ned Stark. He will not give up the royal family for two Tullys. And we do not yet know if we will capture the wolf pup yet."

Tyrion was taken aback; his father never admitted he was right, about anything. "Well, if my large head houses anything, it must be a large wit, then."

Lord Tywin's face brooked no laughter or disapproval at the jape; _stone_, is how Tyrion would describe it. "And you will use it again, before your part in this war is over." When Tyrion frowned confusedly, his father rose, leaning over the map again. "Your wildlings may be of use in this as well."

"You speak of _this _as if I know what _this _is," Tyrion said.

Lord Tywin rested a finger on King's Landing. "You will ride for King's Landing within the week, with twenty of your best savages, along with five knights of my own choosing."

Tyrion's mouth gaped, his brow furrowed. "And do _what_, exactly, my lord father?"

Tywin Lannister turned toward his son, his gold-flecked eyes burrowing into Tyrion's own. "Save your sister, of course."


	5. Wolves on the Water

**Author's Note: I know I took a while to get back to this story, but I have an excuse: school has been taking over much of my free time, and I've had to fully commit to it as a result. With the semester ending I have much more time to write so there should be more chapters following this one soon.**

**Hope all of you enjoy this!**

**ARYA**

The morning fog was especially thick as the _Wind Witch_ made anchor beneath the cliffs, and Arya Stark couldn't see what Vos was pointing at. "I don't see it. You better not be lying." She pinched his arm playfully as she continued to search the mists.

The young, Myrish captain's son made a pained sound at Arya's attack with her fingers before scowling at the Stark girl. "Why would I lie? It's out there – I swear!" His accent was not as thick as his father's.

"You also swore that once the ship was attacked by a kraken before your da' scolded you." Gendry's chuckling voice made Arya jump; she had thought her and Rolly were alone this morning, besides the crewmen below. She turned her head to look at him; his shaggy, thick black hair was clean – finally, after three days aboard the ship – and the stubble on the blacksmiths apprentice's face once again reminded Arya of his age. _He looks like a rougher Robb, _she mused.

Gendry was aboard with the rest of the Night's Watch recruits headed for the Wall. Upon delivering Arya and Sansa to White Harbor and into the Manderlys hands, the _Wind Witch _would turn north once again and make for Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. At least that's what Gendry told her, and all of that was one of many whispers amongst the other recruits.

Vos was surprised by Gendry's appearance too, a frown plain on his face. "By the Lord, I _swear _that it's out there." Moving over to the railing again, leaning a bit out over the water, the dark-haired boy's eyes lit up as he began the same spew he had told them yesterday. Much to Arya's sorrow, Vos's spirit and outgoing nature reminded her of Mycah, the butcher's boy that had died for her mistakes on the kingsroad. _My friend,_ she thought to herself. "They say that the castle is haunted. My father told me so, too. The Whispers was once a castle belonging to the Crabbs, a powerful family of lords and ladies. They were close to the dragonkings at court, in the red castle, and even married into them, it is said. But after the dragonkings died, so did the Crabbs, such was their loyalty."

Arya frowned, made a face. "How do you know so much about it? Aren't you and your father from the Free Cities? Across the sea?"

Vos didn't have time to reply as a gruff voice cut in. "Just because we're from here, don't mean we don't know how things are over there."

Yoren was a greasy, smelly man, but Arya found him to be more lighthearted than most of the black brothers she had seen throughout her short life. At one point in their voyage, the watchman had joined the four guards and some of the crew for a latenight drinking session, which Arya had snuck out to spy on. She remembered that night vividly: Septa Mordane had been sleeping so hard she snored like an ox, as she recalled with a giggle.

Yoren wore a small smile as he took a few steps toward the three children. "And so it works the other way around, believe it or not. Just because one person is from another place, like Vos from Myr, you from Westeros, has no bearing on a person's knowing of things." His smile grew wider as he got to the rail, staring up at the ruined keep of House Crabb. "Most of what he said of the place is true, but no one man can know the whole truth of something." He rubbed his nose and gathered his cloak around him as another wind gust hit them.

Arya made a face as her eyes moved back to the castle along with Yoren's. "Well what if someone else sees something differently and they're from the same place? How does that work?"

Before Yoren could answer, a shout came up from the crow's nest; she did not hear what the man had said, but in an instant she realized. Turning swiftly, along with Yoren and the others, Arya saw a ship, far off, moving north and west. The strong wind was doing nothing but hindering their progress. The fog had dissipated a bit, but it wasn't clear enough to see the sigils on the banners above the crow's nest of the galley. "Who are they?" she asked with a bit of urgency.

"Pirates?" Gendry sounded a bit more scared than Arya was. _Why is he scared? They're not coming right at us._

Yoren shook his head lightly. "No, they would've been on us by now if they were." Seeming to just realize the recruit's fear, Yoren turned to frown at Gendry. "Are you scared, recruit?" He scoffed. "Wait 'til you lay your eyes on a real enemy, like the wildlings."

Gendry, his face getting red, got up from his seat and sighed, crossing his arms. Arya chuckled so lightly that it was barely audible.

Above them, on the second deck, Captain Qos opened up his far-eyes and scanned the ships, his yellow-dyed beard brushed by the wind. His deep voice seemed to carry even beyond the deck of his ship, his voice heavy with the accents of Myr. "Either trading galleys or local transports. Most likely traders." The large man nodded, and then slowly lumbered his way down the galley, turning to Arya before bowing. Arya was confused; why was he bowing? _This is his ship._

"My lady," Qos boomed, "your septa is inquiring for you. She awaits you in my cabin."

Arya sighed and made an exaggerated stomping toward the door leading to the captain's quarters – which Qos had given over to them; for what reason, she could not place. The entire ship was made from a sort of wood that Arya couldn't remember the name of. Mordane had told her and bored her with a story about how ships are made, and with what wood, and why different varieties of wood are used in making ships. All Arya knew was that it was soft as she walked and ran her fingers over it.

The captain's chamber was nothing compared to her father's solar in Winterfell, but it was so colorful and beautifully illuminated that Arya didn't want to make comparisons. Fruits and wine and other tasteful food and drink adorned the two tables in the room, with one by the window and one at the end of the captain's bed, which Arya and Sansa _and _Jeyne Poole had to share at night. Sansa and Septa Mordane sat at the bed-table, the septa straight and solid and expressionless as a statue. _She's mad, _Arya knew. She could tell, now, after several years of annoying the old woman.

Sansa looked beautiful as ever, with her stupid red hair and her stupid blue eyes and her _stupid _pretty smile. This smile was smug, as was Jeyne Poole's, who sat crosslegged on the bed, her chin resting on both of her hands, a judging look on her face.

Mordane's lips pursed as Arya entered the room. "Ah, Arya. So glad you could join us."

Arya bit her lip. _What did I do this time?! _Her eyes darted to the table, and just then figured it out. _I missed breakfast; I woke up before them and snuck out. _Why did all of these _stupid _things happen to her? "Hello."

Mordane gestured at the chair with its back to the bed, Arya's usual spot for meals since their leaving the capitol. "Care to take a seat? Gods know we have been for close on an hour or two."

Arya hesitated, then shuffled quickly over to her seat, the legs of the chair screeching against the wooden planks of the floor. Mordane made an annoyed noise, much to Arya's amusement. Jeyne Poole quickly shot up off the bed and sat across from Arya. Both she and Sansa giggled silently as the septa began her ceaseless lecture.

Arya didn't pay attention to anything the old bag said; but, she said "Yes, septa" once Mordane had asked if she understood. It seemed to appease her.

She didn't eat any of her food, which was long since cold. Sansa and Jeyne lightly ate a lemon cake or two before they left to the other side of the room, brushing each other's hair for what seemed like an eternity. Arya glared at them while stirring a few blackberries around her plate, and nearly didn't hear Mordane ask "What were you doing up so early, anyways, Arya? Surely not practicing your courtesies, as I see you have once again failed to halt playing with your lips."

Just now realizing she was chewing it, Arya's teeth retreated from her lip into her mouth again. _What do I tell her?! _Mordane never had a soft spot for Syrio Forel, whom Arya was with so early in the morning. Her technique was getting better, and the Braavosi water dancer was drilling her harder than in the capital. She had to balance her weight on the rails of the ship every morning at dawn, then catch at the very least one of the three mice-catching felines on board the vessel, then came the actual drilling. "Be the blade," Syrio had told her right before their training. "As swift and sharp as the snake, as subtle as a shadow. Remember what I have told you, girl, you are a _sword_. Act like it."

Arya tried to avoid making eye contact with Mordane, instead staring at her plate. "I was with Gendry," she blurted out without thinking. _Stupid, stupid!_

The old bag snorted lightly. "The blacksmith's apprentice? Arya Stark, you amaze me every day. What would your mother think about you associating with such a greasy, unclean young man?"

_I don't care what she would think, _she wanted to say. It took all of Arya's effort not to. She just sat and waited for Mordane's millionth lecture to end.

It was well becoming an hour until finally the words stopped pouring from Mordane's mouth. She sent Arya off to "gallivant with the rogues and thieves going north", as she put it. Arya picked up her skirts to run a little faster, tears welling in her little eyes. She didn't want to see or talk to or hear _anyone_.

She was knocked onto her behind when she rounded a corner and ran straight into the stout belly of a man all in black, smelling of unwashed linens and greasy hair. The tears now streaming down her cheeks, Arya looked up at Yoren with a certain masking mirth. "What are you looking at?"

The black brother frowned and kneeled down, causing Arya to slightly crawl back a bit in hesitation. "Now, I just saw you a while ago, up on the deck, happy and full of snarky little comments. What happened so fast to make your mood change, little lady?"

Arya made a face and stood up, straightening and fixing her dress. "Nothing. I just yawned."

Yoren rose as well, a little slower than her. _Old people, _Arya mused. "You don't look that tired… and you were rounding that corner there a little fast, don't you think?"

Arya bit her lip, unable to control her tears, avoiding eye contact with Yoren. "I'm trying to run to get rid of my tiredness…"

Yoren snorted and grabbed his belt, jutting his gut out slightly. It made Arya uncomfortable, for some reason. "I can't help you without the truth, m'lady."

The words came pouring out of Arya's mouth then; everything that transpired on the voyage and before in the capitol that had upset her to this point, to crying and confessing to a stranger such as him. After all had been said and done, Yoren was rubbing his beard, clearly thinking deeply. The man leant against the wall of the ship, scanning Arya and her crying face. Suddenly, he frowned. "You know what will make you feel much better, m'lady?" He smiled a yellowy smile and gently put his hand on Arya's shoulder to turn her down the hallway. "C'mon. Some of the lads down in the - bottom, floor, whatever the hell you call it – are having a few rounds of dice, I'm sure the banter will cheer you up."

Arya followed him, matching his speed, but she knew that this wouldn't be enough to make her feel better about all that's happened. She needed the thrill of exploration again, like when she was in the Red Keep searching for cats and found the skull of Balerion, the Black Dread. _Yoren can't know, he's too old to understand, _she thought to herself. All the way to the messhall, Arya Stark thought of ways to find that thrill once again…

… and then she knew.


End file.
